Page 26 of When the Storm Breaks
Ridge finished every bite on his plate, the lasagna courtesy of Kate who felt the need to ‘take care of her boys’ even though we were fully capable of cooking for ourselves. He wiped his mouth on the back of his arm like the true gentleman he was and got to his feet. “But hey, if you’re looking to get laid, pretty sure my English teacher is up for it.” I kept my face neutral, but Ridge obviously read something on it. “Holy shit,” he crowed. “You’ve already tapped that, haven’t you? No wonder she went easy on me. I’d do her though. She’s hot in that sexy librarian way.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. Give me patience. “Stay away from your English teacher. You’re in enough trouble as it is.”
He was laughing as he walked past me and right out of the kitchen. I grabbed him and hauled him back. “Clean up after yourself. I’m going out. If you need me, call me.”
“I won’t need you. I have a fun-packed evening ahead of me.”
“Don’t screw things up with Delaney. You need her help so you don’t fail English. That’s the only reason she’s coming over. To tutor you. She’s not—”
“Dude. Save your breath. I’m not interested in screwing Delaney. You met her.” I’d met her this afternoon when she was called into our cozy meeting. Delaney had volunteered to tutor him in English.
“Little Goody Two Shoes is way too uptight. Not to mention she treats me like a charity case. Guess it’ll look good on her college applications to say she tutored some white trash loser.”
I heard the bitterness in his tone and couldn’t entirely blame him for it. Under the circumstances, I would have felt the same way. Even I had sensed Delaney’s air of superiority. But Chloe was willing to give him another chance and he couldn’t afford to blow it. Not after she figured out he’d been cheating for the entire semester. Not after that joke of an essay he’d handed in. Soft porn, Chloe had called it.
Now he had two choices. Accept help or get held back a year. The only silver lining, the thing that gave me hope for Ridge, was that he’d owned up to cheating and claimed the girl who helped him knew nothing about it. He said he’d stolen her notebook from the locker and had copied her essays. Even though I knew that wasn’t how it happened, I didn’t call him out on the lie. He lied to protect someone and in my book that was the right thing to do.
“Who does schoolwork on a Friday night?” he complained when the front doorbell rang.
“People who don’t want to fail the eleventh grade.” I pointed my finger at him. “Make sure you’re here when I get home.”
“Chill, dude. You’re starting to sound like your uncle Patrick.”
How times had changed. I used to be lawless. A rule breaker. A cocky asshole who had gotten into more fights than I could count and had believed that fucking the bad shit out of my system was actually going to be my salvation.
But the birth of my son had changed me. Not to say I didn’t still have a wild streak, but I was a rebel with a cause now. If anyone ever messed with my boy, I would kill the motherfucker with my bare hands then dance on his grave. Noah would nevereverhave to suffer the way I had. And if Ridge ever needed me, I’d be there for him too.
Chapter Eight
Brody
I stoodoutside the screen door and listened to Shiloh singing along to “Whole Lotta Love.” Fuck, that voice. Even if I never kissed her lips or knew the feel of her body, the sound of her voice was enough to make me hard.
“Shiloh!” I shouted through the screen door to be heard over the music. The windows were open, ceiling fans whirring.
“Come in! It’s not locked.”
I let myself in and crossed the hardwood floor, stopping on the other side of the breakfast bar that separated the small kitchen from the living and dining area.
She looked up from the chopping board and smiled like she was happy to see me. She was wearing a loose black tank top over a thin white one, and I couldn’t be sure, but I thought she was braless. Her green shorts were short, her feet bare, ink black hair in one of those messy buns, a few loose strands framing her face, and it struck me that I was getting to know the girl, not the rock star who had thousands of fans screaming her name at sold-out concerts.
“Hi,” she said finally after we’d been staring at each other for a few seconds, my mind going where it shouldn’t because yep, she was sure as shit braless under those thin tank tops.
I laughed under my breath and scrubbed a hand over my face. “Hi.”
“I hope you’re not in a rush,” she said. “I got a late start, so the jambalaya won’t be ready for a while.”
“How long is a while?”
“Are you starving?”
“Always. Need any help?”
“Nope.” She grabbed an IPA from the fridge, flipped the lid and set it in front of me. “Just hang out and keep me company.”
I took a long pull and watched her dice an onion. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “Onions always make me cry.”
I studied the tattoo on her upper arm—a gnarled, twisted branch with delicate leaves—and pulled up a stool. She pushed the onions to the side with the blunt edge of her knife and hacked off the top of a pepper.
